Blue-Collar Boys (Service Calls - Alpha Male Romance Erotica Stories) (2 page)

The repairman gazed at Susan, intentionally silence.  Then, he stepped forward and lowered his voice, stern. “My name is not ‘Joe.’ ‘Joe’ is sick today.  I am Cozma.  If you want it fixed today, the price is one-hundred fifty.  Or maybe you get your boyfriend to fix instead.” Cozma nodded over to a framed picture on bookcase.

Susan followed Cozma’s glance to the picture of her future husband.  Stan couldn’t unscrew a set of training wheels, and this guy knew it.  Susan was starting to get the impression that Slavic Sir Speedy didn’t really care whether or not she replaced the humidifier.  He just wanted to irritate her.

“You want it fixed today?  I fix it.  You don’t want to pay.  Then I don’t fix.” Cozma shrugged and replaced his tools into his suede tote bag.  He swung his bag over his broad shoulders and moved forward for the front door.

 “Okay, okay,” Susan said, jumping in front of Cozma with a forceful push against his torso.  She felt the muscles in his chest contract.  “One-hundred fifty.  But it better be
fucking
perfect once you’re through with it.  I mean it.  No more whistling.”

Their eyes connected, and Susan peered into his playboy gaze.  She loved and hated it.  Cozma grinned wide; he was amused by her empty threats.  He lowered his tote bag to the floor and hovered over her, close and uncomfortable.  Cozma stood much taller than Susan, and he his chin tilted downwards, just to make his words meet her lips.

“I fix all your problems, remember?”  he said with an arrogant wink.  Then, he brushed past Susan, heading towards the front door.

“Wait—” Susan called out, her voice cracking with alarm.  She jumped in front of him again, blocking his exit.  “Where are you going?  I
said
I would pay you.” 

Susan heard the anxiety in her own voice, and checked herself.  Yes.  She was the Ice Queen, damn it.  She was in-charge.

 “I go downstairs to get new humidifier from truck,” Cozma replied.  His blue eyes softened, reflecting the color of his service man blouse.  He hands spread open with reassurance.  “Please—”

Susan noted how he said “please” with gentle courtesy.

“Well, okay.  I guess…” She tossed him a smug glance, like she would allow him to pass by—just this once.  He nodded and smiled, waiting for her to step aside and clear the way.

From her living room window, Susan watched Cozma rummage through the bed of his white pickup truck.  The long lines of his arms stretched across the vehicle, and there was something rugged about the way he rearranged his tools.  She found herself gazing at the way he unloaded and reloaded his truck with blue-collar confidence.

            Cozma returned to her condo with the new humidifier and immediately set to work.  Meanwhile, Susan continued to monitor him and felt a strange urge to fill the silence.

“So, ‘Cozma,’ huh?  What is that, anyway? Like Russian or something?”

Cozma scoffed, like he’d just been insulted.  “No.  Romanian.”

“Romanian,” Susan repeated.  “You’re pretty tall for a Romanian.”

Cozma dropped his screwdriver and peered at Susan.  “Tell me.  How many Romanians do you know?”

“Well, I’m just saying that you seem taller than I would expect a Romanian to be.”

He was making Susan nervous, and she didn’t know why.  Maybe it was his unguarded stare or direct questions or intimidating posture—the way he would cock his weight to one side and dangle his wrench down his other leg.

“Do you know where Romania is?” he insisted.

“Yes,” Susan asserted, feigning offense.  She literally had no idea where Romania was.

 “Look, do you see these filters?” Cozma pointed, changing the topic.  “When the weather gets warmer, you will take them out and drain the water at the bottom of the pan.  Or you will grow mold and your air conditioner will circulate it through your ducts.  Ask your boyfriend to help.”

“
Fiancé
,” she corrected him.  “I’m getting married tomorrow.” Susan held out her hand and flashed her engagement ring. 

“He will help you.  Yes?” Cozma repeated without interest in her ring or her imminent marriage.

“Yes,” Susan snapped back. 

Hello
?  She’s was getting married—
tomorrow
.  Everyone else in Susan’s life seemed to acknowledge and understand what that meant except for Slavic Sir Speedy.  She was annoyed that he was treating her like a child, but she was even more annoyed because she knew that Stan would be clueless about humidifier filters and mold prevention.

“Are
you
married?” 

Cozma raised an eyebrow at Susan as he tightened the last four screws onto the face plate of the new humidifier cover.  Clearly, Slavic Sir Speedy was not the type to be satisfied by any one woman, and Susan knew it. 

 “Girlfriends?” Susan probed.  It wasn’t a question.  It was a bitchy assertion that she wasn’t as naïve as he thought.

He screwed on the final bolt at the end of the hose’s nozzle.

 “No more whistle,” Cozma answered.

Susan could feel herself frowning and she knew that he could see her frowning, too.  Cozma had finished the job.  He had fixed her furnace.  But still Susan couldn’t stop frowning, and Cozma noticed it.

“What’s wrong?  You don’t believe me that it is fixed?”

“No, I trust you,” Susan muttered with another frown.

“Okay then.  So you should not frown and worry about such little things.  You are getting married tomorrow.  Yes?  You should be happy.”

“Who says I’m not happy?” Susan snapped.

But Cozma was right.  Susan was scowling, and they both knew it.

“You have a very pretty face.  But you are not happy,” he repeated, their eyes locking. 

He was standing there, staring at her, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting for her to say something.  But then, suddenly, Susan realized he was waiting for the check.

 “One hundred and fifty, right?” Susan asked, turning away for her checkbook.  She felt her hand trembling as she wrote out the check, and when she turned back to face Cozma, he was already staring at her, eyes penetrating.

Susan held out the check to him.  But Cozma didn’t move forward to accept it.

“You are very beautiful woman.  You should be happy.”

Susan nodded “yes,” then “no,” and waved the check at him like a surrender flag.

 “I fix all problems, remember?” he said, ignoring the payment.

“Yes, and you fixed my furnace.  Thank you.” It was the nicest thing Susan had said all morning.

“But still you are not happy?” Cozma watched as she lowered her eyes and her ice queen guard.  He continued to stare at her, his blue eyes tracking her frown. 

Susan shrugged.  She wasn’t happy, and there was no point in lying about it anymore, not even to Slavic Sir Speedy.

“I can make you happy,” Cozma said, lowering his voice.  “Just once.  If you want.”

Susan heard his offer like an echo murmuring through her mind, and she was simply unable to react fast enough.  Before Susan knew it, he was there, in front of her, close enough for Susan to smell the scent of aftershave on his neck. 

“I’m getting married, tomorrow,” Susan uttered, like it was a request for mercy. “Really, I think you should go…” she managed to say without conviction.

“Tell me to stop, if you want me to stop,” Cozma said, softening his hard accent, his hand slowly traveling down the back of her skirt.  She closed her eyes and concentrated on the touch of his forearm encircling her waist.

Susan didn’t tell him to stop, even though she was certain that it was a bad, bad, bad, bad idea.  A horribly bad idea that really, really, really,
uuu-hhhhhhh
… really felt good.  He was petting her now, stroking her backside with the force of his palm, his nostrils exhaling hot breath against her string of pearls.

God, why did he have to have such strong hands?  Susan imagined his veins bulging as he worked on loosening her backside—the same way he worked on loosening the humidifier nozzle nut. 
For christsake.  He was a furnace repair man.  She was a six-figure pharmaceutical sales associate
.

“I’m getting married tomorrow…” she repeated, attempting to resist how good his fingers felt pressed against her ass.  But Susan wasn’t resisting.  She was relaxing with every breath.  He could feel her giving in.  “Don’t you care that I’m getting married?  I mean, doesn’t that make you think less of me?”

Susan was always worrying about whether or not people were thinking less of her, and she was worrying about it now, just as Slavic Sir Speedy slipped his hand up her corduroy skirt.

“Yes, I care very much,” he said, dropping his mouth down her neck.  “And it’s probably the reason why you are driving me so crazy.”  His hand whisked up the smooth texture of her nylon stockings. 

“Oh, my…oh, myyyyy-igh…” Susan exclaimed.  His fingertips had burrowed deep between her legs, and they began rubbing the soft pouch of her panties.  She had never driven any man “so crazy” before, and she was having a hard time denying Cozma the pleasure.

He continued to massage her bulge, circling over the sensitive part of her crotch.  Her nylon stockings stretched tight over the protected crevice he wanted most.  She pressed her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders, and he dropped to his knees, his chin snaking down between her breasts.  Cozma unfastened the first three buttons, then kissed the silky exposed cups of her padded bra.  He was breathing hard now, harder than before, and his fingers were moist with her excitement.  Susan thought about the fact that she hadn’t had time to get a bikini wax in over a month, and now, Cozma was fondling the pillow of her public hair bunched under her satin panties.  She was driving him crazy, her nylon stockings preventing him from entering her. 

“You’re teasing me…” he whispered, consuming her padded bra with full-mouthed kisses.  But really, he was the one teasing her.  She clenched both his shoulders, hard and firm, and dropped her head forward, trembling. 

“Oh. My. God,” she exhaled, spreading her legs wider, letting him rub deeper between her nylon lips. 

“Please, just a little bit,” he begged.  “I must feel you, just a little.”

Susan shuttered with anticipation as he flipped up her skirt, like a corduroy umbrella, and embraced her right nylon buttock with his rough palm.  His left hand moved to the front of her belly and stripped down the waistband of her stockings, slowly, deliberately, towing them down her thighs.  Her stockings clung above her knees, and her smooth pink panties were now exposed.  Cozma kissed the dark bulging shadow, trapped underneath the wet satin, and savored her scent.  Susan glanced down, waiting, hoping, praying for him to remove her panties.  But he didn’t, even though it was what she wanted, and he knew it.  She tugged him forward, her thighs quivering, desiring the bare touch of his fingertips.  She needed him, wanted him, expected him to slip his fingers inside her, but Cozma held back.  He was making her wait for it.

“Tell me how to fix all your problems,” he said.

Susan could barely speak.  She gushed with excitement.  She needed him to relieve the tingling, throbbing sensation between her slit. “I want your fingers…deep inside.”

Cozma obeyed, and inched the tips of his fingers between her lips.

“Deeper,” Susan quivered.

His fingers entered her—deeper.  Susan moaned with relief as he stroked her pink satin backside with his other hand. 

Oh, god, yes
… Susan dangled her arms along her thighs. “More,” she whispered.

Cozma obeyed.  This time, he penetrated her with two fingers, and Susan’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, god. Oh, god, yeeeeeeesssssssssssssssss.”

Tremors vibrated inside her.  They were tremors that sex with Stan never produced.  Cozma could feel her changing, and he wanted more from her.

“I want to hear you make noises,” he insisted.  “I want to hear you whistle.”

Cozma’s fingers probed a pleasurable spot inside; it made Susan gyrate.

“
Ahhhhhh-hhh
—” The vibrations grew stronger and stronger. “
Ahhhh-ahhhhh-yeeeeeeeeeeesssss
!” Susan dug her fingernails into his shoulders, and spread her stance wider apart, allowing Cozma to push even deeper inside with his fingers.  There was no holding back. 

“Oh, god, god, god.  Y-E-S!” Susan wanted the neighbors to hear how much she loved her furnace repairman. 

Cozma shifted his other hand down her buttocks, drawing back the pink elastic liner over her left cheek.  He slid his palm under her panties and slipped his hand into the crevice of her backside.  It was a naughty maneuver, but one that seemed so natural, so necessary.  He explored her anus.  She had never let anyone stimulate that part of her before, and with every taboo caress, her muscles contracted, then relaxed with a sharp thrill.

“I want you to feel it,” Cozma coaxed her.  “I want you to feel it, and I want you to whistle for me.”

Susan was always an overachiever and she could not disappoint Sir Speedy now.  She wanted to whistle for him, she would do anything for him.

 “A whistle,” Cozma encouraged with a whisper.  “A whistle.”

Susan pushed his head down towards her crotch, letting go of everything.  She felt his tongue replacing his fingers.  He was tasting her now, tasting her juicy nectar, tasting how much he had pleasured her.  She clenched her jaw and exhaled through her teeth, raising her arms up with an uninhibited squeal.

ZZZZZZZeeeeeWWWWWeeeeeeeeeeet! ZZZZZZeeeeeeWWeeeeeet
! Susan sang out as her whole body convulsed with ecstasy. 

And there it was.  Susan was whistling—just like her furnace.  And indeed, Slavic Sir Speedy had fixed two problems for the price of one.

Tommy

Chloe Patterson was the devoted wife of a physician and the mother of two beautiful children.  She lived in Rolling Meadow Hills, the newest development within her affluent suburb.  She carpooled her two children in her silver jaguar to their private schools.  She went to the hair salon for a professional manicure and pedicure every week.  And her husband, Mel, bought her two dozen red roses every month to celebrate their loving marriage of eleven years.  Chloe had the perfect husband, the perfect children, and the perfect home.  There was little more any woman could have wanted, except perhaps a new leather sofa and a designer alligator skin hand bag.  And even those things, Chloe could buy herself without having to ask permission from her husband.  It was an ideal life, except for one thing—Chloe was unhappy.  And unlike her friends who recited their problems to their psychologists after their Tuesday morning massages, Chloe knew no amount of therapy was going to change her disillusionment with her vacuous, idle routine.  She was trapped in a role that no longer gave her satisfaction: she was a stay-at-home mother who had grown bored with staying at home.